...the coast of Normandy...
On a windswept promontory overlooking the restless waters of the Atlantic ocean a small priory is perched. Ocean waves crash against the cliffs, spray rising to mist the ancient stone walls, westerly winds howl and seep through thinly mortared rock. In a narrow monk’s bare cell, a naked man kneels on the rough stone floor facing a wooden cross fixed to the wall. He shivers in the cold, yet he is sweating from effort and pain, his hands splattered with his own blood. He breathes carefully, flinging the seven corded Discipline back over his shoulder, a cry escaping from his clenched mouth, wincing at the pain, he forces aloud the prayer ….
Lave-moi de ma méchanceté
Purifie-moi de mes péchés qui sont toujours devant moi
Méchant depuis ma naissance, pécheur du ventre de ma mère…
The Discipline rises and falls, digging deep into angry open wounds, blood flowing …
J’enseignerai tes voies aux méchants,
Et les pécheurs reviendront vers toi
Ne me chasse pas de ta présence
Je te plairai par des sacrifices prévus
He falls forward arms stretched wide, gasping, his back on fire with pain…
Je vous remercie pour vos conseils
Et déclare la bonté de ton Nom aux pieux
A soft tap at the door and it opens immediately A tall, spare and angular man carries a basin of fresh water, clean linens draped over his arm. He sets the basin on the small table. “Mon frère,” the Prieur’s voice is gentle, “these wounds must be tended, or they will suppurate and give you fever or worse.” He sets a vial of salve on the table and dips the cloth into the warm water.
“No,” the monk manages to gasp, “you must not Prieur. The Discipline allows me to offer my flesh in penance. My fate will be determined by God’s will.” The Prieur’s kind eyes look with horror at the ravaged back. He picks up the corded whip and shakes it.
‘This is not an instrument of God or learning discipline Thomas. It is a whip, an device of punishment and harm. This,’ he shakes the whip for emphasis, “is not God’s plan for you.”
Prieur Petrus is deeply troubled by what is taking place in this cell. “Mon frère, it is not God’s will that you die from what you do to yourself.” Tenderly, the prior dabs at the open cuts and slashes, the monk unable to stop his low cries of pain. “We do not serve Heaven in these ways. Our ecclesiastical courts have decreed otherwise.”
“God is not pleased with us Prieur. You have seen the ship. You must understand its presence.’
“Not as you do Thomas. I must discourage your … affinity for the work of the Inquisitors. Your blessed mother named you for the most forgiving and merciful of saints.”
“The time is here,” the monk stubbornly insists. “It cannot be ignored. Others agree with me.” The Prieur looks pained, “please Thomas.”
Prieur Petrus rinses the blood stained cloth in the water and pats the area dry. He applies the salve and covers the monk’s damaged back with a linen bandage, binding it into place with a strip of cloth. A useless precaution as he knows the monk will tear the bandage away as soon as he leaves. He glances at the cross on the wall…help me… Brother Thomas is a monk under his care, whose whip lashed words are slithering into their community and the countryside.
“I must insist dear Brother Thomas, that you stop these warnings about the ship. The people look to us for guidance. Our younger brothers are early in their vocation and need time for their wisdom to gain maturity.”
“They come to me of their own accord.” Brother Thomas replies firmly. “The ship is here Prieur, with a message that we cannot ignore. We must attend to the messenger. It is as God wills it.”
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“Brother Thomas is…” Brother Guerric yanks the small carrot from the earth with unwarranted vigor, clods of dirt flying in all directions, “not doing God’s work in my humble opinion.”
“When has God tried to humble your opinions, Guerric,” Prieur Petrus smiles at the aged monk, a man he has known since his novitiate and deeply values for his clear eyed truth and counsel.
“We all know what Thomas is doing, and it is troubling,” Brother Guerric shakes the stunted carrot at the Prieur. “I have said before that you wait too long to write to the Prieur Provincial. They need to know.”
The two men are in the small kitchen garden. The soil is poor and there are few vegetables that can withstand the cold winds and gray skies and rocky grounds that prevail along the coast, as stunted carrots testify.
“You should also write to the Abbot and to Paris. This can quickly get out of hand,” Brother Guerric pulls at a second carrot. “Act now Petrus. That ship is affecting the entire countryside. Soon we will have husbands denouncing wives, children bound to beds and starved to drive out the devil and suspicions running rampant.”
“Yes, you are right. I will.” The prieur looks doubtfully at the ragged garden rows, dug between the largest rocks that are too hard to remove, not unlike suspicions which once embedded can also seem impossible to root out. “Thank you Brother Guerric.” The old monk grunts and waves him off.
Prieur Petrus walks away to compose his letter. Help me…again he implores his Maker. He is guilty of waiting too long, fearful of both the ship and his superiors who would expect him to do something. God has made him into a strong man in body and faith. But not a brave man, he prefers study, long periods of reflection and prayer. A small priory was the extent of his ambition. In his heart he fears that he is no match against the priests of the Inquisition. He stares at the blank page, quill in hand and prays for strong words of warning to come.
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The Santissima San Pedro de Arbues towers over the Belladonna. Grappling hooks soar through the air and armed soldiers swarm aboard the Belladonna, using their weapons to push the crew to the other side of the deck. Renacer, Jabari, Anriquez and Butchart stand on the quarterdeck waiting for what comes next. The crew of the Belladonna are silent, standing in groups by skill and duty. Renacer notices them fingering crosses that have suddenly appeared around their grimy necks.
A priest appears at the top of the rail and deftly climbs down to the deck of the Belladonna. Renacer takes a step forward, thinking of asking if their ship is lost, but bites back his quip. Jabari, Anriquez and Butchart stand with hands clasped behind their backs, faces tense.
“Capitán.” The priest wears a black hooded cape over a white tunic and scapular, a rosary hanging from a black leather belt. He is a long man in height and the shape of his face, hands and fingers. A prominent nose, cheeks scraped clean and pink from being newly shaved, his hair is thin, colorless, pasted against his skull. But his eyes are dark, incisive and moving. He ignores the other three men on the quarterdeck and the rest of the crew.
“I am Padre Diego de la Rocha. The boat is alongside. Select your men for the oars. Follow me.”
“May I ask where we are going…in France?” Renacer uses a mild tone that also carries authority. A long moment of silence follows before the priest answers him, as though he is unused to the question. “Not far.”
As they descend the ladder into the longboat, Renacer notices the crowd gathering on the headlands. News of the immense Spanish ship bearing the banners of the Inquisition has spread quickly. He wonders how long it will be before the news arrives in Paris.
Amon Renacer sits on the stern thwarts, the priest in the bow, facing him and staring. Armed soldiers are between him and the priest. At first, the priest’s constant unblinking stare is unnerving, but Amon decides the man is either short-sighted or possibly mad, or both. He glances at the men at the oars, which includes both Jabari and Anriquez who are shooting dagger like looks at him. It amuses him that Jabari and Anriquez are doing the hard labor of rowing upriver to their destination. As captain, he would not be expected to take up the oars. At the very last minute, he had decided to take Odysseus instead of Butchart and directed him to the tiller. The Inquisition’s envoy was only impatient for them to climb down into the boat. Renacer ignores them all. He makes the slightest nod of encouragement to Odysseus and turns his gaze to the estuary which will lead to a narrow river, turning north. He is thankful for the warm sun and time to gather his thoughts. They are in Normandy, although he has never been this far south of the Seine River and the ports of Honfleur and le Havre. The long boat moves slowly and is barely inside the small estuary when the priest orders the rowers to turn the boat toward the shore. In the interval between the initial sighting of the Inquisition ship and the lowering of the longboat the crowd on the headlands has grown significantly, comprised mostly of locals from the farms, fishing villages, and a few who are better dressed. Renacer had seen the church spire as they rowed toward the estuary, so it is not surprising that among the crowd are priests. As the longboat changes direction and moves to the shore, the people crowd the trail descending to the beach. The longboat grinds and jerks to a stop, the men leaping out to drag it higher on the beach. The priest climbs out and approaches the assembling crowd, one hand raised in benediction, the staff and waving banner thrust before him. He is greeted by a crowd both curious and worshipful, tears of joy and noisy with cries and shouts of reverence, “praise the Lord” and “hallelujah” along with deep moaning groans and the first to arrive fall to their knees. The priest waits until the crowd is spread out and silent before him. The priest raises the staff, speaking in a strong, clear voice…
“Whom does not the voice of the serpent seduce? That man, unmindful of the favor divinely conferred upon him, unmindful of the so manifest miracle, followed his wife’s advice and returned to his former error. God, not unmindful truly of the crime, in return for so great ingratitude, punished the hand of the devil…
Renacer listens to the story being told, of a man deceived by his wife, possessed by the devil she betrays her husband and he in turn betrays heaven. The consequences are horrific in description, the priest detailing the exile and torture endured. The crowd is spellbound, grunts and cries of approval at the retribution delivered, anxious that the priest know they are all obedient servants. When the story is finished, the priest reads a lengthy list of prohibited behaviors but stops short of demanding the people assembled denounce the heretics among them. Instead, the priest informs them of heaven’s grace and that a truthful confession can result in milder punishments. The crowd is nodding in agreement, looking surreptitiously at each other. The priest has succeeded in creating suspicion and watchfulness among these people. They will do the work for him. He smiles at his reinvigorated advocates and beckons for them to line up for a blessing.
It is some time before the priest returns to the longboat and the men push it back into the estuary and the men take up the oars and row back into the estuary, passing marshlands and small fishing villages. The estuary narrows into a river, lined with rolling fields lush and wet from lingering winter showers. Hedgerows are greening and mark a field’s boundaries. Along the river’s bank are pockets of early blooming wildflowers. Windmills are situated on hills overlooking the fields, some close to each other. They pass small hamlets, cottages with chickens roaming open yards, a few goats or cows in a field, a woman washing clothes, a man fishing or making repairs to a boat. They stare with open curiosity at the long boat and its passengers. They row for a short distance, until the priest sees another congregation of people on the shoreline, praying fervently, holding out their hands to him. Renacer can see others whose eyes widen with disbelief and fear as they recognize the black caped priest holding a staff, the banner of the Inquisition fluttering in the wind. Again, the priest orders the boat to be turned to the shore, and the crowd responds with joy and shouts of victory and praise.
Renacer leans back against the stern and considers his situation. Again, he wonders, when Paris will learn of the ship, and the spectacle of enthralled crowds and Inquisition banners on French soil. He glances at Odysseus who is frowning, clearly unhappy with the scene and the priest. At this rate, wherever they are being taken, it will take time to reach it and with many opportunities to get out of the boat and possibly mingle in the crowd. Could they escape?
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Dawn filters into quiet rooms. A bold knock at the door, sleepy eyes blink open and a voice thunders, “riders to the stable.” Dreams retreat as feet swing to the floor and groggy riders reach for their boots.
“Riding with us?” Lucien leans into the bedchamber, where his wife is getting dressed. “I would love to come,” Sophia replies, “but I must be sure Alessandra has everything she may need.”
“I will find a place on the river for a swim later,” Lucien promises and then he is gone. She smiles at his departing back. Marchal is finally gone, the King’s letter is read and reread. Fears of invasion have subsided. Ane while there are decisions to make and plans to formulate, at last, Lucien can rouse a sleeping household to greet a new day with a brisk morning ride in the countryside. It has been too many days being confined to the chateau. She can hear her children’s excited voices as they leave their bedchambers, fading as they go down the stairs. They will walk quickly through the kitchen where Cook will have slices of warm bread to tuck into their pockets before they go to the stables. Lucien insists his children saddle their own horses, while the grooms are there to make quick checks of bridles, girth straps and hooves. Porthos will arrive with Olivier, Charlotte and Renee, d’ Artagnan with Alexandre. She breathes deeply, Marchal is gone and they must make plans. But now, at last, there is an early morning ride. She feels happy for the first time in too many days.
“May I ride Danseur today?” Alexandre looks hopefully between his father and Lucien. Lucien nods, “you have ridden her well in the paddocks. You have good hands Alexandre.” He looks questioningly at d’ Artagnan smiling at his eager son who says, “we will ride together Alexandre and see how she goes.”
Lucien chuckles at Alexandre’s beaming expression, “saddle your horse Chevalier.”
Horses are led from the stable, the guards on the ramparts smile at chattering children and cavorting horses. Elodie and Constance are waiting to wave the riders off. “Oh Alexandre!” his mother exclaims, “what a fine mare you are riding.” The boy smiles proudly, riding between Samy and Olivier. The riders walk their horses through the gates and out onto the open road. The sun is rising, the fog over the meadows drifting into thin gray wisps. Birds chatter and sing. They ride in groups of two or three, Lucien, Suzanne and Afonso ride behind Charlotte and Rayya who turns to her father, her eyes asking permission and he waves his hand. Rayya and Charlotte exchange a grin and urge their horses to a gentle canter with Lucien keeping up behind them. Porthos stays close to Renee, who is a less confident rider. Rosie, loyal to her friend Renee, rides next to her.
“Are we waiting?” d‘ Artagnan teases Alexandre who clucks his tongue and the mare stretches her legs in a smooth canter, Samy and Olivier riding beside him. D ‘Artagnan rides at the rear of the group, proudly watching his son’s confident seat in the saddle, the mare responding to him. He glances at the blue sky. It is a very fine morning.
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“Now that is the way to start a day,” Porthos dismounts and holds Charlotte’s bridle although he does not need to help her, but she indulges her father with a smile. The children are leading their horses into the stable to put saddles on racks and bridles on hooks and check water buckets. They chatter like squirrels, boasts of equestrian feats, mock protests on who won a race or took a jump and which one them first spotted a particular bird or a fawn in the trees. The stable boys are busy mucking out the stalls, so when the horses are ready, the stalls are fresh with deep new straw. The children walk together toward the chateau, youthful voices filling the open yard.
“Music to my ears,” Marie comments from the garden. She is sitting on a bench encircling a tree and Athos has just joined her. He did not go out with riders, but she refrains from any comment. She would be happy to sit with Alessandra, but she allows Athos to ask if that is what he wants. She wishes Bianca had been able to ride, but that is for her father to decide.
“A good morning,” Athos comments, smiling at the chatter. Porthos and Lucien, leading Jaaden, walk towards them. “We missed you my friend, and I am starving,” Porthos declares, wagging a finger at Lucien, “that cook of yours from Royaumont makes meat pies better than I’ve tasted in the palace.’ He bows no Marie, “no disrespect to your excellent cook Your Grace and may I add Madame that the boys rode exceptionally well today. Alexandre has the hands of a cavalry officer.”
“None taken,” Marie says lightly, “it pleases me that the children have earned your praise General, but you may wish to hurry, or they will also get all those coveted pies.”
“What?” Porthos looks up to see the group of youngsters entering the kitchen. “I beg your leave Madame.” He strides toward the kitchen. Lucien sees Sophia emerging from the greenhouse.
“Here comes my wife,” he says, dropping Jaaden’s reins to walk toward her. He takes the box she is carrying and kisses her cheek. “I think this is yours M,” he hands the box to Athos. “I have prepared extra in case it is needed,” Sophia says, “it may not be necessary, she has improved, but…” she smiles, “just in case.”
“Now,” Lucien says to Sophia, “you are with me Madame.” He mounts Jaaden, kicks his foot from the stirrup and holds out his hand. She laughs and looks down at the old skirt and jacket she wears when working in the greenhouse. “I am hardly dressed for riding.”
“You are dressed enough to ride with me,” Lucien asserts and shakes his hand at her. Marie and Athos are amused, Marie offering encouragement. “Go on my dear, you are in the country after all.”
Sophia laughs again, shakes her head, grasps his hand and jumps for the stirrup, Lucien hauling her up behind him. “Where are we going?”
Lucien touches his hat to his mother and turns Jaaden toward the gate. “Swimming!”
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“What a beautiful place,” Sophia exclaims. Lucien smiles, half sliding down the embankment, holding out his hand for her. “I knew you would like it.” They are in an inside curve of the river with a sandbar creating a gentle slope to the sandy beach and farther up a mat of new grass common to riverbanks, Jaaden munching its green shoots. Trees and thick shrubs enclose the beach on three sides, the sun streaming down to warm the sandbar and beach.
Lucien drops his bag on the grass and spreads out an old cloak. “Come on,” he says, “off with those clothes.” He pulls off boots, his shirt over his head, steps out of his breeches and strides into the water, diving under and reappearing. “It’s warm,” he declares and beckons to her. Sophia looks around hesitantly. “Only me here love,” he encourages her knowing she wants to swim and will do it – eventually. She unbuttons her jacket and steps out her skirt and shoes. Clad only in her shift, she wades cautiously into the shallow water and gasps. “It’s not that warm.” But she dives into the river and comes up close to him, pushing her hair back and laughing. “This is divine.”
They swim together, testing the strength of the current. Sophia is careful not to go too far into it, while Lucien swims with strong sure strokes to the other shore and back. They swim along the bank, the only sounds are their splashing, birds singing, an occasional splash of a fish leaping to catch an insect and a quiet breeze rustling the tops of trees. Later they lay in the sun on the soft grass, Lucien on his back, eyes closed. Sophia’s finger traces the raven tattoo that covers part of his chest and shoulder. “What now?”
“I thought perhaps a nap,” he smiles, eyes still closed. She lays her cheek against his chest. His hand strokes her damp hair, “perhaps you meant something else. The others and I have agreed to talk again…”
Her fingers against his lips stop him from saying more. She knows they must talk about the coming days. The letter Marchal had brought requires Lucien, Athos, Porthos and d’ Artagnan to return to Paris and resume their lives. The men discussed the letter long into the night, weighing the potential consequences as they turn over the meaning of Rochefort’s reinstatement for all of them. But in the end, all worries must be put aside. The King sent a letter and they must obey. The work to prepare for the journey is daunting and more worries await them in Paris as a letter from Layla told them of the King’s assignment for Rohan in Madrid. She does not know if Lucien can remain with her or if he will decide she and the children would be safer at Royaumont. She dreads seeing the destruction Marchal caused in her beloved ancestral home.
“Later,” she murmurs. He chuckles, “as you wish my love.”
“Thank you,” she whispers.
He smiles, turning on his side and drawing her closer to him. He kisses her deeply. “Do you wish to leave?” He is considerate. She strokes his cheek, pushing him gently to his back, sliding to cover him with her body.
“Not just yet.”
Twelve Years After 